Susan Wiggs - The Beekeeper's Ball

“I never get mad,” said Isabel.

“I know. It’s freaky. I’m about to become a stepmom to two school-age kids, so I need to take lessons from you on how to be mellow about things.”

Isabel flashed on Calvin Sharpe, and she felt anything but mellow. “Hey, off the subject, but did you attend the last Chamber of Commerce meeting?”

“Yep. I’m a card-carrying member. They’re going to feature Things Remembered on the Chamber website in December. Cool, huh?”

“Very cool. And, um, was there any talk of that new restaurant coming in? It was in the newsletter...”

“Yeah, I think it’s kind of a big deal. Some famous chef...Cleavon or Calvin...?”

“Calvin Sharpe. A TV chef.” Isabel kept her face neutral. You never get mad. Great, just great.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Super good-looking, and he had an entourage with him. I remember now—he’s calling the new place CalSharpe’s. So, you know this guy?”

“He was an instructor at the culinary institute when I went there, years ago.”

“And? What’s he like?”

“Like a guy who thinks the sun rises every morning just to hear him crow,” Isabel said. “But he can cook. And it appears he’s got a restaurant empire going.” She didn’t want to talk about it anymore. She’d already given him too much space in her head. “Anyway. Back to the other guy—Cormac O’Neill. You call him Mac.”

Tess grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the lounge room. “Come here,” she said. “Let me show you something.”

She led the way to the big room, which had already been refurbished for the cooking school. It was light and airy with freshly whitewashed plaster walls and tall ceilings, filled with cookbooks and old furniture and Bubbie’s baby grand piano. When Isabel was growing up, the rolling ladder against the tall built-in bookcases had been her stairway to a different world. That was what books had offered her—all the voyages she wanted, to different realms. Even as a tiny girl, she’d been the consummate armchair traveler, seeing the world from the safety of her own home.

Now she was a steward of this place. For her, Bella Vista lived and breathed with the essence of life, representing security and permanence in a world that had not always been kind to her. Her mission was to revive the place, resuscitate it after the hard times. Her grandfather’s accident last year had shaken Isabel’s foundations. Magnus was a father figure and besides Tess, her only family.

Isabel still loved to pore over photographs of castles on the Rhein, Ayers Rock in Australia, Italy’s Amalfi coast. Sometimes, gazing at the pictures, she would feel a yearning deep in her stomach. Yet when it came to actually traveling to those places, something always made her balk. To her, adventure was always more appealing within the pages of a travelogue.

Tess pulled a stack of new-looking books from a shelf and set them on the lid of the piano. “I met Mac for the first time when I was working in Krakow. I was tracing the origin of some paintings that had been hidden by the Nazis, and he was doing an article on restoring Nazi plunder. I’m actually a footnote in one of his books.” She flipped open a thick volume called Behind the Iron Curtain. “He talks about the Krakow treasure here.”

Isabel felt a surge of admiration for her sister. They had grown up separately, in completely different circumstances, Isabel at Bella Vista, and Tess traveling the world with her mother, a museum acquisitions expert. Isabel could easily picture Tess examining old artifacts, ferreting out the truth about them. She’d had a high-level position finding lost treasures and researching their origins at an auction house in the Bay Area. In fact, her expertise had been instrumental in saving Bella Vista from bankruptcy.

But along with the estate’s reversal of fortune came a good deal of unwanted attention. She very much doubted Cormac O’Neill would have anything to do with her grandfather if not for the stories Tess had uncovered in her research. And then there was the lawsuit...brought by Archangel’s most wily lawyer, a woman named Lourdes Maldonado. She was a neighbor and friend—former friend—who was suddenly looking for some kind of settlement.

“You’ve had such an amazing career,” she said, pushing aside the troubling thought. “Do you miss it?”

“Every once in a while, yeah. I did have a good job in the city. It was great for a long time. But I found something better here.” Tess’s face softened, as it always did when she thought of her fiancé. “I know, I’m ridiculous. Honestly, Iz, I never knew love could feel this way. You’ll see, one of these days. When the right guy comes along.”

“Not holding my breath,” Isabel said.

“Not even for this guy?” Tess handed her the Iron Curtain book.

Isabel took it from her and turned it over in her hands. She studied the author photo on the back. It was an extremely cleaned up version of the grubby, swearing traveler covered in beestings. “Oh, my.”

“You’re welcome,” said Tess, her eyes gleaming. “I mean, obviously we didn’t pick him for his looks but it can’t hurt, right? If we’re going to have someone running around researching the family history, it’s nice that he’s eye candy. He’s single.”

“That means there’s something wrong with him. Or he’s a commitment-phobe.”

“Neither,” said Tess, her smile disappearing. “He’s a widower.”

Chapter Four

“I’ll show you to your room,” Isabel said, approaching Cormac, who was taking his luggage from his Jeep.

He turned and shot her a grin. “I bet you’ve always wanted to say that, right? ‘I’ll show you to your room.’” He spoke with crisp formality.

“Right,” she said. “I mean, right this way.” She mimicked his formal tone.

“Thanks. And thanks for helping me this morning. I’m guessing a trip to the urgent care place wasn’t on your agenda today.”

“It never is. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Nothing like a shot of artificial Adrenalin to get the day started. I took a hike around the place and made a few calls. Your grandfather around?”

“Always. He likes tinkering in the machine shop, or being out in the orchard with the workers. I’m sure he’s eager to meet you.” She led the way to the entry. It was looking grand these days, a lovely archway framing a view of the big sunny central patio. The wings of the hacienda curved generously around the brow of the hill upon which the house sat, the whitewashed walls expansive and cleanly cut against the blue sky. In the center of the broad, open space, a fountain burbled, the water flashing in the sunlight. Flowers bloomed in pots and espaliers along the walls. Two cats—Lilac and Chips—prowled around, Lilac shadowing the dark gray tabby as if to keep him away from the fountain. The workers were finishing up the pergola, creating a shaded area for café tables.

“This is fantastic,” said Cormac. He glanced down as Chips, the older cat, rubbed up against his ankle. “Hey, buddy.”

“That’s Chips. The white Siamese is Lilac, our latest rescue. We call him Lilac because it was springtime, and the lilacs were in bloom, and he has that unusual color. He takes a bit longer to warm up to people.”

Cormac leaned down to stroke Chips, who turned his head this way and that, his eyes shut in pure indulgence. Then, with slow dignity, he padded away. “Is that guy okay? He seems a bit unsteady.”

“Chips has a kind of feline Parkinson’s, so he has trouble getting around,” said Isabel.

“The white one seems to look after him,” said Cormac, watching Lilac swirl carefully around the older cat.

“He does,” said Isabel. “Chips rescued Lilac, and now Lilac takes care of Chips.”